


Tanap Anya Tikambi

by traditionalturncoat



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Biracial Character, Espionage, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traditionalturncoat/pseuds/traditionalturncoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The survival rate for stretcher-bearers was almost nonexistent, and Kaidan knew his odds of leaving France were grim at best. After so long at the front, he'd come to terms with it. Then a stray bullet and a stubborn American sniper have to go and give him hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the fell clutch of circumstance

No amount of time spent watching men writhe in pain properly braced Sergeant Kaidan Alenko for the reality of being shot.  
  
The day was grey and cold over the trenches, a weak fog hunkered over the frozen mud between them like a great beast. It ate the barbed wire and slowed the progress of the four medics as they picked their way along the edges of the battlefield.  
  
“Almost dawn, Sergeant,” Ben Hislop said, hushed. Watery light hedged along the horizon, piercing the fog enough to be dangerous. Kaidan grunted once, taking a quick survey of the battlefield. There were always men dying and that was the truth of things. They were a constant groan under the chatter of artillery and gunfire, but they were quieter in the morning. The cold and the night never failed to ease their numbers.  
  
Kaidan touched the collected identity discs in his pocket, and paused just long enough to nudge at a man’s ribcage. It yielded in a way that life wouldn’t allow. Clenching his jaw, Kaidan bent down to grope around the body’s neck for an identity disc, and cut off the second tag to add to his growing collection. 

First patrol of the day and there were no soldiers to be helped.  
  
“We’re not going to find anything else,” he conceded. Sighing, Kaidan gave a tight nod, and signaled his men back to the trench. They obeyed with a quiet breath of relief that was easier to see than hear. If dawn snuck up on them, all four stretcher-bearers would be easy targets. A red cross had proven to be a tempting shot for the Germans when there was nothing better to snipe at.  
  
The trench was well within sight when everything went to hell. One moment Kaidan was carrying the stretcher along the edges of No Man’s Land, and then he was on it with his left shoulder burning and his own blood staining his clothes for a change.  
  
“Just a scratch, sir,” one of the stretcher-bearers assured, jostling the stretcher in his haste. Kaidan bit his lip to stifle any noise and resisted the urge to clutch at his shoulder. Pressure would help stem the blood, but the mud on his hands wouldn’t do him any favors in the long run.  
  
“Just a scratch, just a scratch,” Ben chanted under his breath. All Kaidan could do was repeat the words in his head and hope they were true despite the pain. After all, he’d survived a shelling with a migraine the last week, and the pain wasn’t what would kill him.  
  
The corporal at the Regimental Aid Post took one look at Kaidan and swore in a way that didn’t inspire confidence. He hastily wiped his hands off and all but scrambled over his packed medical supplies.  
  
“Jerry shot the good one!” he called. He cracked the dirty handkerchief in his hand against a cot and then gestured impatiently. “Put him on the cot already, you daft bastards!”  
  
“Christ!” Kaidan hissed as the stretcher rocked right, then left, then promptly swore again as Ben grabbed him under his arms and the poor bastard Vergiss grabbed his kicking feet. The strain made Kaidan’s shoulder burn. They hefted him onto the cot and stepped back. Half-curling in on himself, Kaidan muttered curses until the pain dulled back down.  
  
The corporal smacked Kaidan in the head with his handkerchief. “Set an example, man! Straighten up, let’s see how much you’re staining your uniform.”  
  
Groaning, Kaidan curled his lip enough to bare his teeth. He sincerely hoped his bedside manner wasn’t quite as grating. The corporal gave Kaidan’s side an encouraging nudge before Kaidan finally grit his teeth and straightened out. His left arm was stiff at his side, tingling, and Kaidan had to twist to use his good arm to straighten it.  
  
“There,” the corporal encouraged, “be a big, tough sergeant for the boys, yeah?”  
  
“Fraser,” Ben warned, “get to the part where you make him more un-shot.”  
  
“I can’t make him more _un-shot_ , but let’s see what we can do about the leak, yeah?”  
  
They stripped Kaidan of his coat, jacket, and shirt with a little difficultly, wincing as the movement earned more than one hiss of pain from Kaidan. He was panting by the end, though he had done little to help. A fresh smear of blood was across his chest and the bleeding wound was high on the shoulder. Fraser prodded a bit, testing around the wound, and hedging the bruise forming around it. When he prodded at Kaidan’s collarbone, Kaidan arched off the bed and made a noise like a wounded dog. Ben took a step forward, Vergiss took one back, and the third stretcher-bearer retreated to the flap of the tent, looking pale.  
  
“Don’t!” Kaidan hissed. After a few controlled breaths, he eased back onto the cot and gripped the sides until his knuckles were white. The bullet wound was clean through, but the odd jut to his collarbone spoke of collateral damage.  
  
“That’s broken,” Fraser said. It was unnecessary in a tent full of men who knew what a broken bone looked like, but it filled the momentary silence. Fraser shrugged and unpacked his medical kit. The bleeding still needed to be addressed and nothing about it was going to be pleasant. “Won’t be much good here, eh Sergeant? Down the line you’ll go.”  
  
“Fraser!” Ben hissed. Kaidan grunted, the sting of his pride on top of everything else wasn’t helpful. Fraser was right. No one could carry an empty stretcher properly with a broken clavicle, much less one with a soldier on it. And, while they could in theory treat him this close to the front, it would be a waste of supplies.  
  
“Hislop,” Fraser replied calmly. He gave a tight smile, poured a phial of iodine on the wound, then gathered up a handful of gauze and applied sharp, unyielding pressure to Kaidan’s shoulder.  
  
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” yelped Kaidan as he tried to arch off the bed, only to feel the broken edges of his collarbone grind against one another when Fraser stayed in place. The keen Kaidan made sounded a lot like “You fucking bastard.”  
  
“Hold this,” Fraser said with a nod. Reluctantly, Ben stepped forward to hold the gauze in place while Fraser set about binding it, careful to avoid letting his fingers get caught.  
  
“I’m sorry about this, Alenko,” Ben said, trying to look anywhere but at Kaidan.  
  
“Blubbering on him won’t help, Hislop.”  
  
This time Kaidan snapped, “Fraser!” and tacked on a, “Fucking _hell_ , you bastard” for good measure. Ben frowned, expression wavering from indignation to concern and back again before he scraped up the courage to look at Kaidan. He offered a weak smile.  
  
“I can hit him for you, sir,” Ben offered, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. It prompted a laugh out of Kaidan before his face twisted back in discomfort.  
  
“Wait until he’s finished,” Kaidan said with a wince. “Then right in the nose.”  
  
Fraser grunted and finished tying off the binding. “I’ve changed my mind, it might be fatal. Best end it now, yeah?” He straightened up and clapped Ben on the shoulder, which jarred his arm enough to jostle Kaidan’s shoulder in turn. Ben pulled his hands away, mortified, and Fraser laughed as Kaidan set about a fresh round of cursing Fraser’s mother and whatever jackal she mated with to produce Fraser.  
  
“Fraser!” Ben scolded, squaring his shoulders. Before he could make good on his promise to punch the man, Fraser gestured toward the blankets in the corner. Blood was only warm when it was fresh, and being shirtless in the damp chill of the tent wouldn’t help Kaidan recover. Clenching his jaw, Ben went to fetch a blanket.  
  
Fraser smirked at Ben’s back. “It’s a bit high, yeah? Not much of a sniper. Might’ve caught a stray, Sergeant. Thought you learned your lesson about that after Vergiss.”  
  
“Fuck off!” Vergiss said.  
  
“Stop talking any time now,” Kaidan bit out. Ben spread the blanket out over Kaidan, tugging it up past Kaidan’s shoulders. Fraser patted his cheek, and Kaidan considered biting at his hand.  
  
“God bless the CCS, you’re going to drive them all mad.” Fraser snatched his handkerchief back up and started scrubbing at the blood on his hands. “Why are you hovering? Bastards, out of my post. Boys at the front might appreciate not bleeding to death.” Fraser waved his arms wide as if he was trying to shoo off horses. When Ben didn’t move, Fraser shoved him. “Out! The proper soldiers need a bit of hand holding.”  
  
Ben grunted, looking ready to argue, maybe to deliver that promised punch after all. Vergiss spat at Fraser’s feet, but dragged Ben out with him.  
  
“They’re a cute bunch, yeah?” said Fraser after a minute of silence. “You pick the litter, or they got the same defect as yourself?”  
  
Kaidan sighed, reaching up with his good hand to scrub at his face. There was a pressure under his eyes and against his temple that promised a migraine later. Encouraging Fraser by answering would only bring it on faster. He closed his eyes and waited out the corporal.  
  
“Fine, fine. We’ll have you down the line before you can say whizz-bang, yeah? Couple weeks without being shot at, you’ll be good as new, and we’ll throw you back at the Bosch.” There were footsteps and the rattle of equipment as Fraser cleaned up. “Or you’ll get a nice infection, they’ll hack off your arm, and you’ll have got your blighty, yeah? Back to Canada for you.”  
  
“Any time, Fraser,” Kaidan said patiently.  
  
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Fraser hummed _O Canada_ under his breath until Kaidan threw his bloodied coat in Fraser’s direction.  
  
  
  
  
Whatever else Fraser may have been, he was a decent medic and right about the Casualty Clearing Station. The Aid Post was emptied out just after lunch, sure to be filled again by evening, and Kaidan found himself traveling with three other men in the back of a miserable wagon. He tried very hard not to wonder at the stains on the bottom of it. There weren’t that many miles between the frontlines and actual help - there couldn’t be if anyone expected to live through this war – but the roads were prime shelling targets.  
  
Kaidan leaned back against the side of the wagon, turning just enough to watch the horizon crawl by. It looked the worst in broad daylight. The trees were all gone and the grass with it. Instead, there were miles and miles of mud, pockmarked and broken by odd shadows and dead horses and men. Limbs jutted out of the ground, hands and feet stretched out of the mud as though they'd tried to dig themselves up and died again from the effort.   
  
At one point the wagon stalled, and the able bodied men hopped out to clear the path of corpses. The poor bastards had been caught by a fated shell, two dogs and their handlers all dead. Kaidan cringed at the distinctive peppering of shrapnel on their bodies, hunching lower in the wagon.  
  
“Lucky sods,” one of the injured men beside him huffed. Startled, Kaidan glanced at the soldier, then promptly away when he noted the facial bandages and heavily bandaged shoulder. Wisely, he kept any response to himself, and tried to nap the rest of the way to the CCS.  
  
In a way, the station was worse than Kaidan anticipated. When they arrived the horses were being changed for fresh ones, all unsettled by the bark of medic dogs. Nurses bustled around, half of them in bloodied sleeves and the other half looking ready to bloody some sleeves on various patients. Soldiers were everywhere. The worst were on cots and stretchers with blankets up over their heads, stacked off to the side like surplus.  
  
“Come along, come along,” a young nurse urged them, shepherding the new men toward a small tent that served as a check-in. The officer in charge took their name, number, and injury. One of them – the worst off, sure to lose his arm- was bustled off to the converted buildings nearer the surgery. The rest of them were shown to tents by a nurse.  
  
“There. Home, sweet home,” the nurse chirped. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her grin was so wide and genuine that Kaidan couldn’t help returning it.  
  
“Home, sweet home,” he echoed, though it rang hollow when he said it. “Thank you, miss.”  
  
  
  
  
He’d braced himself for weeks of boredom and catching up on sleep. He hadn’t anticipated that being away from the front would spark different anxieties. While he dreamed of German invasions, he was never the victim in his own nightmares. It was always his men, his friends, the people he couldn’t help while nurses were still fussing over him.  
  
The first time, Kaidan woke up fighting, his chest and shoulder burning and the blankets caught on his bandages. He tore the blankets off and almost sprang from the bed. The shoes weren’t close enough to bother with, so Kaidan walked from his tent with bare feet. The nurses gave him a wide berth and pitying looks, but it must have been a familiar sight to them. No one moved to stop him.  
  
He walked until the soles of his feet were black and he felt tired enough to rest again. It became a routine.  
  
When he wasn’t pacing, Kaidan wasn’t a good patient. He argued with the nurses, he argued with the doctors. They disagreed about how to wrap his arm and how much rest he needed. The largest point of contention was how much rest Kaidan _didn’t_ think he needed. Restricted movement and restricted duties would have been a blessing to most men, but Kaidan found himself chafing at the restraints.  
  
After three days of sleeping and resting, he started helping the nurses attend to their duties. The doctors chased him off when they had the energy; they pretended not to see him when they didn’t. It was better than loitering around, but with one arm there was only so much he could tend to without making things worse.  
  
  
After a full week of haunting the place, a man in a mixed uniform caught Kaidan lingering outside the surgery.  
  
“You Alenko?” he asked. Kaidan eyed the Canadian uniform, then the American cap and badge, his brow furrowing. He stood a bit taller, but looked dubious. Odd things seemed to happen daily in the CCS, but a man pledged to two countries was a new confusion.  
  
“Yes,” Kaidan said finally. He checked the man’s sleeve before adding, “Lance Corporal.”  
  
“What? Oh for--” the man snorted, shifting to inspect his patches. “It’s been a while since I wore this one. Leftenant now, and Brevet Captain.” Kaidan raised an eyebrow, mute. “Right. Well. Walk with me.”  
  
After a long moment of hesitation, Kaidan moved to the man’s side. They walked in silence, moving to the outer edges of the camp. Close enough to hear the din of everyday life, but away from the center of things as to not draw too much attention. Kaidan’s arm itched in the bandages and he curled his free hand into a fist to keep from scratching.

“I was under the impression you wanted to talk?” Kaidan began. The man –Leftenant and Brevet Captain Name Withheld—hummed his agreement. He said nothing more. Biting back on the spike of irritation, Kaidan took a deep breath and tried again. “What was it?”  
  
“Kaidan Alenko, isn’t it? From Vancouver?”  
  
Kaidan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”  
  
“You’re a bit of a legend, Alenko.” The man grinned, wide and unabashed. It was supposed to be encouraging, maybe, but it made Kaidan’s heart sink down to his feet. There was only one thing Kaidan was famous for back home. “Good and bad. Survived Somme, trained up stretcher-bearers with an impressive survival rate, and that…bit of unpleasantness at the beginning aside, you’ve done well for yourself, King, and Empire.”  
  
Still beaming, the man threw an arm around the back of Kaidan’s neck, careful not to jar his injury, and pulled him close. There was just enough of a height difference that Kaidan hunched down to make the hold as comfortable as an unknown man that close to the jugular could be. “But we think you could do a little better. What do you know about the Americans?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Americans!” He tapped the brim of his cap and Kaidan’s gaze couldn’t help but follow. “They finally saw fit to do their bit, as it were. It took three years, but better late than never.”  
  
“What do the Americans have to do with me?”  
  
“Glad you asked! Now, late as they are, the Americans are our allies, we can’t have them stumbling into the enemy unprepared, can we?” Frowning, Kaidan tried to ease out from under the man’s arm. He held fast, patting Kaidan on the chest with his other hand. “Exactly! They’re three years behind on everything: tactics, terms, and training.”  
  
“And you want me to…tutor them?” Kaidan ventured.  
  
The man clapped a hand to Kaidan’s chest and shook him gently. “They said you were sharp. Yes. You trained up damn fine stretcher-bearers, and the Americans are going to need competent medics if they plan to be of any use.” He glanced over his shoulder, but no one was paying them any mind. “And between us, they’re going to need all the help they can get.”  
  
“We’re all the help they can get, are we?”  
  
The man laughed. “We’re the best they can get, Alenko. They’re late, but they have high expectations. Your job is to go out there and make them sweat a little, maybe save a few lives in the process. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than two or three months depending.”  
  
Kaidan furrowed his brow. “What about my arm?”  
  
“Do you need your arm to raise your voice?” was the quick reply.  
  
Grinning despite his best efforts, Kaidan shook his head and considered it. He thought of how a week off his feet was driving him crazy, and how much worse five to eleven more would be if he didn’t accept. Americans couldn’t be that bad and teaching wasn’t horrible. Truth be told, Kaidan thought he had a knack for it.  
  
More importantly, he’d be doing something useful.  
  
“Glad to have you aboard,” the man said, getting all he needed out of Kaidan’s silence. “We’ll send some messages along with you, but congratulations on being the first hand-picked for the program, Sergeant. Consider this your official congratulations from Leftenant Jasox. The paperwork will follow shortly.”  
  
Startled, Kaidan blinked at Jasox, finally able to put a name to the face, and then frowned.  
  
“Wait,” Kaidan protested, “I haven’t said yes yet.”  
  
“Yes, you have.” Jasox clapped a hand to Kaidan’s good shoulder, and then released him entirely. Free from the man, Kaidan felt oddly off-balance. “Rest up. Everything will be sorted by morning.”  
  
  
  
  
Somehow, everything _was_ sorted by morning. With an efficiency that Kaidan was almost sure the military avoided, they had him packed up, and loaded with an extra bag of missives and manuals that Jasox swore up, down, and sideways were important. He made Kaidan promise that he would deliver them first thing.  
  
Americans were a shiny new addition to the war proper, barely any mud on their boots or blood on their hands and it showed. Their tents were in decent shape, their uniforms clean, and their spirits high. The camp was far enough away from the frontlines that they even had hot meals. The dark humor that followed men around like second shadows wasn’t present yet. The laughter wasn’t bitter or desperate.  
  
Kaidan didn’t know what he was doing here.  
  
The cart stopped in front of the makeshift gate. The injury allowed Kaidan to take his time climbing down and sorting out his kit. The bag of promised missives was easily twice the weight that anyone anticipated. Each and every one properly sealed as well, Jasox assured, to make tampering difficult. Kaidan resisted the urge to look into the bag to verify.  
  
In the camp, the loitering soldiers turned to watch.  
  
“Set?” the driver asked, his voice startling Kaidan. For all they’d spoken on the ride back, it could just as easily have been the horse asking.  
  
With a stiff nod, Kaidan took a step back from the cart. “Yes, that should be all. Thanks.”  
  
The driver nodded in reply and gave the reins a flick. The horse snorted but it took an impatient click from the driver to get the mare moving. She danced backward, pinned her ears, and finally kicked up mud while heading in the right direction. Even with an entire camp full of people behind him, Kaidan felt alone.  
  
“Come on, Sergeant,” he muttered under his breath, “show them how it’s done.”  
  
Calling on a confidence he didn’t have, Kaidan squared his shoulders. Back straight, he barked out, “Private,” to the nearest American, who scrambled to match Kaidan’s posture. “Grab the bag. I need an escort to Captain Hackett.”  
  
“Sir!” the man said, jogging over to grab the bag. He fumbled with it for a moment, not wanting to crease anything in his attempts, before holding it secure against his chest. “This way,” he continued, nodding in a vague direction toward the larger tents.  
  
Hackett’s tent was unmarked. Regulation size, regulation color, but literally set apart from the even rows of tents that made up the camp. The soldier stopped outside the open flap of the tent and announced “Canuck officer to see you, sir!” before barging in and dropping the bag of missives next to the field desk.  
  
Kaidan glowered at the soldier’s back until he disappeared entirely.  
  
“Alenko,” Hackett stood, shaking Kaidan’s hand. He didn’t seem concerned about the arm bound to Kaidan’s torso to keep it from moving too much and, in turn, Kaidan tried not to be too concerned with the angry red scar bisecting the man’s face. “They got you here damn quick. If only the supply wagons had your luck.”  
  
“If only, sir. I believe that’s part of the reason they sent half of the manuals along with me.”  
  
Huffing, Hackett looked at the bag. “As long as they’re here, I won’t question the means. A shame they didn’t get you here a bit earlier, though, might have caught the tail end of our medic training for the day.”  
  
“It’s nothing that I can’t do in the morning, sir. They might be less skeptical if I’ve had a chance to clean up.” Kaidan gestured vaguely to himself. There was still dirt on his face, mud and blood on his clothes. There were no clean uniforms anymore, but the other sets packed were at least cleaner than the uniform he’d traveled in, barely patched from where the bullet tore through it.  
  
“Of course,” Hackett said. He touched Kaidan’s kit, gesturing with his other arm. Kaiden let himself be herded out of Hackett’s tent and down the makeshift road toward the only marked tent that he’d seen so far. Giant red crosses on the flaps. A few soldiers were milling about, obviously trying to look busy as Hackett passed by. “We’ve put you up near the medic tent. Made the most sense at the time.”  
  
Hackett held open the door, and Kaidan dropped his kit near the cot provided. Not sleeping on the ground was still something of a novelty, it was nice to think he might have time to get used to it.  
  
“I have no objections, sir. My briefing wasn’t very…thorough, when they sent me along. What are the expectations?”  
  
“Evaluate where they are and make any training changes as you see fit. We know we’ve gotten in a little over our heads, but we don’t plan to play catch up for the whole damn war. You’ll be the highest ranking medical officer here and the men know not to hassle you too much. All reports are to be delivered to myself or Lieutenant Jasox. He’s the man to talk to about supplies once you’ve gotten a handle on things.”  
  
“Lieutenant Jasox?” Kaidan echoed without thinking, the American pronunciation clumsy on his tongue. If Hackett noticed Kaidan’s confusion, he was doing a wonderful job ignoring it. What was the point of sending the missives with Kaidan if Jasox was going to the same camp?  
  
“Southern man, blond. He’ll be along in a moment.” Hackett nodded in the direction of the mess hall. “You caused a bit of a stir when you arrived, Alenko, and he rabbited off to rescue you some food. Said he didn’t want to subject you to the men until you’ve had a chance to rest.” There was a pause, Hackett waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. When it didn’t come, he pressed on. “Come talk to me once you’ve had a chance to evaluate the training. I need to get back to my post.”  
  
“Of course,” Kaidan said, snapping off a quick salute. He stayed standing until Hackett’s footsteps faded. Rolling his good shoulder, Kaidan paced from one end of the tent to the other with tight, controlled steps. Even this far from the front, surprises couldn’t be a good thing. Shot or no, Kaidan wished they’d shipped him back to the trenches. At least the Germans never lied to him, and their bullets were straightforward enough.  
  
“Alenko?” Kaidan stopped. One conversation didn’t mean he knew what Jasox sounded like, but he was expecting him, and the twang of the American accent caught him off guard despite Hackett’s description. When Kaidan turned, Jasox was standing ramrod straight near the flap that served as a doorway, balancing a tray of food on one arm and trying not to grin. “Surprise,” Jasox drawled.  
  
Hunch confirmed, it seemed. Jasox was the same chipper Jasox who dragged Kaidan away from the surgery and got his hopes about being useful. It was the last point that Kaidan felt foolish about, more so than the man’s apparent change in accent and allegiance. Jasox’s uniform matched his cap and badge this time, all American and new.  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Kaidan stepped into the other man’s space and lowered his voice to a growl. “Brevet Captain?”  
  
“When I’m home, I didn’t lie about that. I could be a damn fine captain,” Jasox replied, matching Kaidan’s volume. He didn’t have the decency to be intimidated. “Acting lieutenant of the American Expeditionary Forces when I’m at my home away from home. Now,” resuming a normal speaking voice, Jasox continued, “I brought food.”  
  
“Food,” Kaidan echoed, incredulous.  
  
“Food, Sergeant Alenko, I didn’t lie about that either. Can’t have you fighting the jackals for food before you’ve had a chance to charm them, can we?” Setting the tray down on Kaidan’s cot, Jasox cast a glance over his shoulder, and lowered his voice once more. Kaidan had to strain to hear him. “Eat first. If you want to talk later, walk toward the gate you came in and I’ll find you.”  
  
He patted Kaidan’s cheek twice, his grin so wide that it felt mocking. “Try not to worry too much, sir.”  
  
With that, Jasox left, walking out before Kaidan could decide whether biting at the offending hand was childish or justified. He mulled it over while he ate and decided he would have been justified. He was no stranger to missed opportunities.  
  
All told, Kaidan managed to talk himself out of, berate, and forbid himself from seeking Jasox out for two hours. The sun was safely gone by then, and the Americans were bedded down or trying to avoid being caught by anyone too far up the chain of command. Feeling increasingly foolish, Kaidan left his tent and headed for the gate. A pair of privates scrambled over each other to avoid being in Kaidan’s path for more than a second.  
  
If he hadn’t been marching into an argument, Kaidan would have found it funnier than he did. At least he could have doubled back once to see them do it again. As it was, he marched glumly onward, focused intently on the wooden gate. At the very least, Jasox could tell him which uniform was his real one.  
  
A hand touched Kaidan between the shoulder blades, and Kaidan spun on his heel, lashing out with his free elbow. His assailant anticipated the move and was quick to duck.  
  
There was a low whistle. “Damn. Some habits, huh Alenko?”  
  
“Jasox.” Lowering his arm, Kaidan turned to face the other man fully. Jasox seemed to thrive on Kaidan’s disapproval and threw his arm around Kaidan’s neck in the same careful way he had done before. He pulled Kaidan down into the same off-balance hunch and dragged the man along the edges of the camp. Kaidan wasn’t sure he liked the patterns they were falling into.  
  
“Canadian,” Jasox supplied, once he’d determined they were suitably alone – and probably after making sure that Kaidan was suitably uncomfortable. He dropped the American accent. “I _will_ be a captain once this dirty mess is done, mark my words. Now start with the big questions, we might not have time for the details.”  
  
“Why not tell me that you were going to turn up? Why keep me in the dark?”  
  
Jasox snorted, almost fond. “I say big, you do big. You’re a hell of a thing, Alenko. Well, medic and teacher and fearless, you may be, but acting isn’t your strong suit. _Lying_ , I guess you would call it, but you still aren’t gifted at it. Trust me, I did the research. We needed you to not stutter your way through meeting the captain. Tomorrow, he can chalk it up to nerves or the men because he’s seen you cool and calm once already.”  
  
“I don’t _stutter_ ,” Kaidan protested.  
  
“Ramble, then. Next question.”  
  
“Why meet me at all? It would be easier to not have to explain this.”  
  
Quietly, Jasox made a noise of agreement. “Lying to you would be as bad as asking you to lie. No one else here is going to know what to look for, but you? If I’d lied, then when I slipped up, you’d be able to take your concerns to someone like Hackett. You’d notice things they wouldn’t; habits, speech patterns, whatever familiar behavior in a strange land.”  
  
This was turning out to be less of a practical joke than Kaidan anticipated. It would be an elaborate practical joke, granted, but something not serious. Jasox certainly sounded serious.  
  
“I’m trusting you, Kaidan,” continued Jasox. “We’re both working by a doctor’s rules, you know. First do no harm.”  
  
As far as cues went, that was a pretty good one for Kaidan’s next question. Nonetheless, he hesitated. No answer was the best answer possible.  
  
“What…” he started and couldn’t finish. Steeling his nerves, he tried again. “What _are_ you doing, Jasox?”  
  
“ Helping the bloody war effort is what I’m doing. Short of shooting a German general myself, of course.” Jasox chuckled, and Kaidan forced a quick twitch of his lips, not quite able to muster up a smile or any laughter to go with it. It would be easy to let it go at that. He didn’t want an answer, Jasox wasn’t keen to give him one. Everyone could walk away from this happy. But it would keep Kaidan up if he did that, staring at the canvas of his tent, and wondering if he took the easy road at the expense of the right one.  
  
“Really,” Kaidan pressed reluctantly, “what are you doing, Jasox?”  
  
“Nothing that you won’t be doing soon. Things get lost in wartime, you know. Missives and orders – hell, men on occasion- and I’m here to make sure information isn’t one of those tragic mishaps. Even friends keep secrets, but we don’t really have the time for secrets right now.”  
  
With a disapproving frown, Kaidan said, “You’re spying on the Americans.”  
  
“We don’t need to spy on the Americans. We’re not exactly worried about them changing sides, I’m just there as a suggestion.” When Kaidan’s stony expression didn’t ease, Jasox gestured widely with his hands and shrugged. It was worth a shot, his posture said. “It goes two ways. No one can strong arm the Americans into doing anything – the three years it took them to join the war prove that- but they react well to suggestions. From the right sources. Provided they think they _are_ the source.”  
  
There was another silence before Jasox sighed. “All right,” he said, “I’m a bit of a spy in reverse.”  
  
Espionage didn’t work in reverse, it was espionage either way and they both knew it. Kaidan’s expression stayed disapproving, eyes hard even in the shadows. “They’re our allies.”  
  
“You’re a good man, Kaidan.” Cheer gone, Jasox sounded sincere and disappointed. He lowered his voice. “But we don’t need good men in war. We need good soldiers. So kindly muzzle yourself and follow your damn orders, Sergeant.”  
  
Kaidan squared his shoulders and started to protest. This wasn’t the way to gain or maintain anyone’s trust, and Kaidan was hardly the man to pick for deception; lying, even by omission, tended to rub at him the wrong way. Jasox must have known – a decent spy should have known – that orders weren’t enough to shut Kaidan up, so the man continued, “If we have to ship you out, there will be no one else assigned to this post. The Americans _need_ an instructor with battle experience and we don’t _have_ anyone else to offer. I know you have your integrity to worry over, Alenko, but saving lives should be worth losing a little sleep at night.”  
  
The manipulation wasn’t subtle but knowing what Jasox was doing didn’t make the ploy any less effective. It didn’t make his threat any less real. With his jaw clenched, Kaidan nodded, and bit out a sharp, resigned, “Sir.”  
  
“Don’t look so sour,” Jasox said gently. Wisely, he removed his arm from around Kaidan’s neck and took care not to touch him again. “You won’t need to look in a mirror until after this bloody war is over with, Alenko. You’ll be able to live with it by then.”


	2. I have not winced nor cried aloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The camp carries on with business as usual, Shepard is not a cunning strategist, and Kaidan's week keeps getting worse.

When Rolland Shepard pictured France, he’d imagined something more exotic than gentle hills and stretches of farmland. He’d pictured weather nicer than what he’d faced back home. Rolland Shepard, it could be said, was a bit of a romantic idiot. Reality found him belly-down in the mud on the hill of some backwater French village, looking down on his own camp with Garrus pressed against his side. The most daring thing they’d faced all morning was a persistent drizzle that had their hair stuck to their heads.  
  
“Heard he’s Canadian,” Garrus said, handing Shepard the binoculars. There was a lot of movement near the medical tent – there had been for the past week, now that Shepard thought about it- but all the stretcher-bearers were at least passingly familiar. They all wore American uniforms. He watched anyway, searching out the cut or color of an unfamiliar coat.  
  
Shepard grunted, “Nice of the British to spare some cannon fodder.”  
  
“I’m not sure they had anything to do with it.” Garrus waited for Shepard to grunt again before he continued. “He’s been reporting to Hackett, who hasn’t been reporting to our friends across the way.”  
  
Lowering the binoculars, Shepard fought the beginnings of a smile. “Garrus,” he said, “you haven’t been snooping around the captain’s tent again, have you?”  
  
“And disappoint Lieutenant Jasox?” Garrus snatched the binoculars back, stone-faced as he always was. It was the amusement in his tone that gave everything away. “Never.”  
  
Shepard laughed, “He’s going to have your stripes.”  
  
“He’d rather have my head, but then they’d have to give me a medal.”  
  
Dropping his head to his folded arms, Shepard tried to focus on the quiet sound of Garrus breathing. As close as they were, it was easier to feel. The second round of morning drills blared from the far end of the camp, officers barking off orders, and frantic hoof beats. They were doing something with the carts and wagons, but Shepard couldn’t remember what.  
  
It was surprising how much of a war was spent like that, not shooting at the enemy.  
  
Or maybe it wasn’t, considering the production the war had been since the beginning. The fanfare came first. The war in Europe was three years old, and that made joining it a three year long debate in America. It gave those eager for the declaration three long years to plan slogans and songs. The second the headlines hit the newspapers, the streets exploded with recruiters and protestors either celebrating or bemoaning the of end American isolationism. There were recruitment posters in shop windows and flags lining the streets.  
  
No one mentioned the word ‘draft’ if they could help it, but everyone knew the numbers weren’t enough.  
  
After they shoved the ones they had in a uniform, it was off to basic, off to forts and training. They drilled and drilled; marching and shooting and cursing until they felt they could have captured the Kaiser in their sleep. Then, President Wilson shipped them off so he could sleep at night knowing he’d fulfilled his reluctant promise to their European allies. It wasn’t a promise that made him popular.  
  
Not that Shepard voted for him. Not that Shepard _could_ vote.  
  
But for all the conflicting promises thrown back and forth, there was one certainty: if Shepard enlisted, he’d finally escape Oklahoma and be paid to do it. It wasn’t a decision he had to put much thought into.  
  
“There,” Garrus said, bumping Shepard’s shoulder with his own until Shepard lifted his head. Making a noise of protest, Shepard took the binoculars that were shoved into his hands and looked toward the medical tent. As promised, there stood a man in a Canadian uniform and cap. One of the sleeves of his jacket hung empty, the other bore a bright red cross on an armband.  
  
“Damn,” Shepard breathed. The Canadian was tall and broad, and he moved with a purpose that made Shepard uneasy. Not that a little unease did anything to keep him from staring. The medic spoke to someone with their back turned to Shepard, and he took a moment to admire the set of the medic’s jaw and the straight line of his noise. “What happened to his arm?” He felt Garrus shrug. “Guess we know why his Corps was willing to loan him out now.”  
  
“But why are we willing to take him?”  
  
They both startled at the shrill trumpet. Below, the men released from their drills spilled into the narrow paths between the tents. Shepard watched as the Canadian herded his men away from the main camp, supplies and stretchers carried between them. There were practice trenches off in that direction and it seemed a safe guess for their destination.  
  
Finally lowering the binoculars, Shepard gave Garrus a wide grin. The man didn’t return it, only narrowed his eyes and said, “No, Shepard.”  
  
“No, what?” The binoculars were shoved into Garrus’ bag, and then Shepard was out of the mud and getting his feet under him. Garrus’ mousy brown hair was plastered to his forehead, almost dark enough in the rain to match the smear of mud by his temple. There was another smear on his cheek, not high enough to cover the smudge of freckles that stretched from the edge of one cheekbone to the other and over the bridge of his nose. Fondly, Shepard reached out to push Garrus’ hair back, only mussing it further. He earned a swat for his trouble.  
  
“We’re not missing lunch so you can chat off the medical officer’s ear.” When Shepard tried to look innocent, Garrus pushed himself up and out of the mud as well. “No. We talked to the Turk and the German prisoners and the British troops, even the ones who hated helmets on principle—“ here Shepard corrected _gurkhas_ and Garrus steadfastly ignored him. “We’re getting chow, Shepard. Drills after that or my stripes aren’t the only ones Jasox will get.”  
  
Shepard glanced in the direction of the practice trenches, then back at Garrus. All told, they hadn’t known each other that long. The pair of them only met before they were shipped across the ocean, but it was long enough for Shepard to learn when to push and when to let Garrus have his way. This fight was the latter.  
  
Sighing, Shepard let his shoulders drop. “Fine. No bothering the medical officer.”  
  
The ‘for now’ didn’t need to be said, but Garrus took the compromise.  
  
  
  
  
The stretcher-bearer hesitated a second too long and the soft ground near the top of the trench crumbled out from under his feet. Clutching at the empty stretcher as he scrambled for footing only ensured that he dragged the three others down with him, all of them landing in an uncomfortable pile on the duckboards at the bottom of the trench, the stretcher dropping on top of them.  
  
Unable to bite back his sympathetic wince, Kaidan peered over the edge, careful of his footing. “Everybody all right?”  
  
“Fine,” one said.  
  
“Fucking peachy,” the man under him snapped.  
  
“Get over the top,” ordered Kaidan, allowing just enough exasperation in his voice that they did so without further grumbling. “And try not to kill each other doing it.”  
  
Clamping down on the sigh crawling up the back of his throat, Kaidan moved down the line to watch the next group. The Americans weren’t lacking in enthusiasm or an ability to learn, but some of their questions left him dismayed at best and feeling jarringly out of place at worst. They understood the anatomy of a trench, but not how to slide down it with bullets kicking up mud at your back.  
  
They knew the headlines of the war, but not the reality of walking on their own dead to reach the dying.  
  
After everyone made it back out of the trench, Kaidan made them put sandbags on the stretchers. He watched them scramble in and out of the practice trench until most of them looked ready to mutiny, then doubled the weight and made them try it again. It was an abrupt change from yesterday, when all Kaidan had them do was practice bandaging limbs – even if the patients were kicking and yelling.  
  
When he was satisfied with how confident they became in their footing, Kaidan gave a sharp whistle and waited for everyone to climb out of the trench.  
  
They were filthy, dirt in their hair and clinging to their hands and clothes. For all that, however, their skin was relatively clean, as if they’d just rolled around on the graves of others instead of crawling out of their own. That would change when they were dropped near combat.  
  
“Bratton’s squad fell at the beginning,” Kaidan began. “What happened?”  
  
“Ground gave,” Bratton himself replied loudly, interrupting the “Bratton fucked up!” that someone else shouted. Another member of Bratton’s squad jostled the heckler, but after a moment of scuffling they quieted back down. Kaidan pretended he hadn’t seen it.  
  
“Ground gave,” Kaidan affirmed patiently, not a hint of judgment in his tone. “And what could they have done?”  
  
It wasn’t rhetorical but no one volunteered an answer and only a few dared to mutter something to a friend. It had taken a few days for the majority of them to realize that Sergeant Alenko wasn’t going to treat them like soldiers, but they were still deciding how to handle it. A drill instructor and shouted orders were easy, you just had to follow them. Even vague orders gave guidelines. Alenko seemed intent on giving them plenty of rope and seeing if they hanged themselves with it.  
  
It didn’t make him the most popular instructor.  
  
“Shuffle the squads,” Kaidan said when he decided they’d wasted enough time studying the mud on their boots. If they wanted to hold their tongues, then Kaidan could let them. Sometimes talking wasn’t the best way to learn. “Two sandbags. And I want you to think on it; what could you have done differently?”  
  
He helped sort them, not quite frustrated enough to leave them to their own devices, and then returned to his spot leaning up against a sign post. It marked home in all directions, pointing to far off corners of the world and giving approximate distances. Kaidan tried not to read any of them, focusing on his students.  
  
Besides, he didn’t need a sign to tell him how far away Vancouver was from a place like this.  
  
To their credit, none of the Americans seemed to be in poor shape. The post was soon abandoned in favor of a seat on an unhitched wagon. Kaidan leaned back, trying to find a position that took his mind off the itch of his bandages and gave him a clear view of his students when they started to stumble and tire.  
  
“Sergeant Alenko, sir?” It didn’t give him a clear view of the courier that popped up beside him, salute already in place. Arm twinging in protest, Kaidan sat up abruptly to look at the runner, who was all red hair and freckles and at least two years too young to legally enlist.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Lieutenant Jasox would like to see you, sir.”  
  
Kaidan grit his teeth and scowled off in the direction of the practice trench, ostensibly to watch the progress of the men. Breaking the salute, the runner visibly faltered at such a cold reception. “Did Leftenant Jasox say what he wanted?”  
  
“Uh, no, sir. Only that I was to fetch you – if you were free of course, sir – and it was of…” the boy frowned thoughtfully, trying to recall the exact wording, “ _moderate_ importance.”  
  
The longer Kaidan remained mute, the more nervous the runner looked. By the time Kaidan finally forced himself to look away from the trench, the boy was fiddling with the hem of his jacket in a show of nerves. The childish gesture made Kaidan’s chest ache even as he scolded himself for being ridiculous.  
  
There was nothing to be done about it.  
  
“Please tell Leftenant Jasox no.” Kaidan stood so he wouldn’t have to see another flutter of the boy’s hands. Absently picking at the bandages on his arm, Kaidan took a step toward the trenches only to have the runner take a half-step into his path.  
  
“Okay, sir, but…he looked serious, is all.” Despite his best efforts, Kaidan witnessed the boy running an anxious hand over his hair. For a moment, the shade of his red hair seemed a touch too dark, blood on his temple. Blinking frantically, Kaidan looked away. _Stop it, Alenko_ , he urged unkindly.  
  
“Tell him no,” Kaidan insisted. “He’ll understand.”  
  
The runner stepped to the side as Kaidan strode past him, not wanting to be caught underfoot. Even so, he lingered at Kaidan’s back until it became clear that the medical officer would not be adding to his message.  
  
“Yes, sir,” the boy finally acknowledged, reluctantly heading back the way he’d come.  
  
He wasn’t the first messenger that Jasox sent. After the first night, Kaidan had taken great pains to avoid Jasox at every turn. The man himself was hard to duck, but Kaidan had managed, only to find notes in his tent and mixed with his things at every turn. Now it was messengers. No doubt Jasox would change tactics again soon - he wasn’t the type to linger on a losing strategy – but it wouldn’t make his company any more welcome.  
  
Stopping at the edge of the trench, Kaidan blankly watched the practice and tried not to think of Jasox any more than he allowed himself to think of the Germans.  
  
By some small miracle, there was no repeat of the disastrous fall.  
  
  
  
  
  
“You got a look there, loco.” James dropped onto the ground in front of Shepard. A quick look confirmed that Garrus was nowhere in sight, but the air still smelled faintly of smoke from the range so it was safe to assume the man was cleaning his rifle for the thousandth time. If it were any cleaner, it’d be stripped and useless.  
  
Not overly eager to respond, Shepard leaned his own rifle against his shoulder and stared at a fixed point in the distance. There was no reason to follow his gaze and James didn’t try, used to Shepard’s bouts of measured silence. The horizon was there behind Shepard’s fixed point, free of the sputtering biplanes and steady artillery they knew lay out there near the borders. Somewhere, there was a war so grand and final that they promised there would never be another one. All the bullets and gas were to be used up in the big finish and another war would be impossible.  
  
“What look is that?” asked Shepard, dragging his gaze from the skyline. The attention encouraged James to grin knowingly, irrepressibly smug and maybe a bit endearing when it caught Shepard wrong-footed. He shrugged his broad shoulders and leaned forward to brace his arms against his thighs.

“Like something just wandered into your sights.”  
  
The corner of Shepard’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile. “Things don’t _wander_ into my sights. I put them there, which is damn lucky for some barn-sized bastards who get too close to the targets.”  
  
James hummed, studying the set of Shepard’s shoulders.  
  
Back when James’ _abuela_ was a little girl, she was kicked by a horse. Her leg shattered in a way that was always glossed over whenever James heard the story and never elaborated on when he asked, and while it healed it ached before the snow and rain hit. She always knew when a storm was coming.  
  
James had never been kicked by a horse, but he seemed to always know when Shepard was about to remind everyone that he was a force of nature. Wanton destruction, ripped shoreline, poor-timing and all.  
  
“They bringing more Germans through?” James prodded. It was the safest bet, knowing how Shepard was drawn to all things foreign and potentially lethal. But Shepard shook his head and James had to think of another guess. “Are the English keeping their colony parade going?”  
  
“Is Canada a colony?” was Shepard’s immediate, distracted response. He frowned thoughtfully, tapping a tune on his rifle with his fingertips. If Canada wasn’t a colony, they would have dragged out crossing the Atlantic for three years as well, so they must be. What a shame.  
  
“Ah,” James said. Ah, as if that explained Shepard having a _look_. “And?”  
  
“And?” Shepard echoed. “And what?”  
  
“Did you get his life story yet? Legion said they can’t get two words that aren’t a lecture out of him.” James paused. “Well, he didn’t say it like that.”  
  
“Not yet.” Garrus had done a good job of making Shepard stick to his word despite a few half-hearted efforts. It had been food, then drills, and no time to sneak off and talk to an imported medical officer just because he was the newest and shiniest addition. No matter how many looks he’d cast in the direction of the practice trenches, that hadn’t changed. “You know how jealous Garrus gets, I need to work up to this one. Haven’t quite worked out the details on _how_ …”  
  
A quick survey showed James that Garrus was still nowhere in sight. That didn’t always mean much as Garrus was a firm believer in not being seen when he didn’t feel like it. But if he hadn’t intervened as soon as Shepard starting smirking, there was a good chance that he wasn’t watching through a scope like some well-intentioned but heavily armed angel.  
  
“That all?” James raised his eyebrows.  
  
Shepard dug his heels into the ground and sat up straighter, his fingertips stilling on his rifle. “If you have any grand ideas, Jimmy, feel free to share.”  
  
“That’s an easy one, loco,” James announced, smug in the way that Shepard didn’t find endearing. “He’s a medic, all you got to do is _need_ a medic.”  
  
Cocking his head, Shepard braced against his rifle and leaned forward to study James’ expression. Whatever he found, he liked, as Shepard bared his teeth in a grin so feral that it might have won them a battle or two all on its own.  
  
“Why, Jimmy, are you asking me to dance?”  
  
“Only if you pick the music.”  
  
  
  
  
  
From half the camp over, Kaidan could hear the chaplain shouting damnation and hellfire in a loop and it was giving him a headache.  
  
Groaning, Kaidan buried his head under his rolled blanket. It muffled the sound but the chaplain’s voice was still there, faint and inconsistent. In some ways, it was almost worse to hear him hit a shrill note just as Kaidan started to relax.  
  
He waited five minutes, then five more. Then his patience wore thin and Kaidan threw his blanket to the ground with an unsatisfying thump.  
  
“ _Let death seize my enemies without warning!_ ”  
  
Cursing all the while, Kaidan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot. It creaked when he stood and Kaidan resigned himself to his headache blooming into something worse. The only real surprise was that the Americans hadn’t sparked a migraine sooner. He shrugged on his jacket and fumbled with the buttons. The day Kaidan didn’t bother with his uniform was the day there was a surprise inspection.  
  
He was on the last button when a single gunshot cut through the rest of the noise.  
  
The following quiet didn’t last long. The chaplain’s yelling returned at a more frantic volume, trying to be heard over the increasingly inventive swears of a voice that Kaidan didn’t know. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his frantic attempt to straighten his jacket, pull his boots on, and run toward the source of the commotion all at once.  
  
A throng of soldiers was gathered near the makeshift armory, not by the chaplain’s tent as Kaidan expected. If anyone was dead, they weren’t concerned. The men at the edges laughed and clambered on each other to get a better view. Kaidan didn’t know what to make of the sight. Officers should have been shooing the men on but Kaidan spotted more than one among them.  
  
Curious and irritated, he elbowed his way into the crowd. His progress was hampered by the fact that he only had one serviceable elbow and the soldiers were packed in like cattle. When he finally got close enough to see what all the fuss was about, Kaidan still wasn’t sure he understood.  
  
Adam “Legion” Nazaire propped up another soldier, dragging him in the direction of the medical tent in spite of the man’s aggressive gestures over his shoulder where the chaplain lingered. The soldier’s sleeve was dark with blood, the excess dripping over the front of Legion’s shirt. No one else moved to help.  
  
“And that’s _if_ Jesus would do more than step on your fucking head to keep you under till you drowned, you inbred son of a bitch!” the man roared. The crowd parted before them. If the sea ever learned to fear the rage of men, whoever Legion was carrying might have made a decent Moses.  
  
Unfortunately, the movement drew the men tighter together, Kaidan found himself unable to move forward. He turned around, intent on pushing his way out, and stopping just short when he ran into Bratton. Clamping onto Bratton’s bicep, he dragged him to the edge of the crowd.  
  
“What,” Kaidan barked after he had the other man’s attention, “is going on?”  
  
“Do you mean the fight or the shot?” Bratton asked, sounding far too amused. His smile dropped when he looked at Kaidan, seeing something in the medic’s face that cowed him. He cleared his throat, glancing around for anyone to volunteer an answer for him, but Bratton was the only one willing to look away from the show. “The shot. Right. It’s uh, well, it’s Lanigan.”  
  
“Who is Lanigan?”  
  
“A piece of work,” Bratton snorted. “He’s half-Jerry and it shows, sir. Keeps speaking German and gets everyone all twitchy. He got another casualty roll today from one of the couriers. Said he figures if this keeps up the Germans will out-shell the English and it won’t matter that we joined up because we won’t get there _fast_ enough. I think he said it in German, and well…” Bratton jerked his head toward the pair hobbling closer to the medical tent. “I’m really starting to hate Lanigan.”  
  
No sudden burst of goodwill struck Bratton. He made no move to help Legion with his patient, and didn’t cast so much as a sympathetic look in their direction. The military was desperate for medics, but Kaidan wasn’t sure what good these men would be if they couldn’t forget personal grudges when blood got involved.  
  
Voice tight with barely checked anger, Kaidan ordered, “Get rid of this crowd, Bratton, or so help me…”  
  
With that, Kaidan turned on his heel and marched toward the medical tent to see what could be done. Lanigan was sitting upright on a cot when he arrived, the bloody clothing folded off to the side. The second Kaidan entered, Lanigan had eyes on him. Wary, Kaidan realized. Of him. But not of Legion, who picked through his supplies. What he needed was set on the cot, finally drawing Lanigan’s eyes away from Kaidan.  
  
“It’s going to sting,” Legion warned. Edging closer, Kaidan watched him disinfect the wound. It was nice to know that some of his students paid attention. He didn’t interrupt. Actual practice, without the added artillery fire in the background, was the best training that they could hope for.  
  
“This is fucking injustice,” Lanigan spat, grimacing as Legion tied off another stitch. Silent, Kaidan watched over Legion’s shoulder to make sure he was doing everything as he’d been taught. Of course, Legion was. Of all his students so far, he had the highest hopes for Legion. “Fucking injustice.”  
  
“I’ll tell the world,” Legion deadpanned. Even in the dim lighting of the tent, there was no hiding his faint grin.  
  
“Too right, you will. _I_ will. Oh, just you wait, Legion. I’ll do twice what I did to that skyscout.” As if remembering that Kaidan was there, Lanigan glanced up and gave Kaidan a scowl. With his hair up and every which way, he reminded Kaidan of a disgruntled cat. “Haven’t met you yet, have I?”  
  
“No,” Kaidan said, straightening up. “But I’ve heard a bit about you. I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve been shot.”  
  
Lanigan sneered, but the tension in his shoulders eased just enough to be noticeable. I must have passed, Kaidan thought. The first week in the American camp was nothing but subtle tests from his students. It was understandable; Kaidan was an unknown, different in both temperament and technique than their other instructors. At the same time, Kaidan’s arm and shoulder ached, sleep was hard to come by, and he’d been stripped of the only familiar faces that this country offered. Pointedly ignoring Jasox wasn’t easy either. Tests on top of all that were wearing him down.  
  
Kaidan furrowed his brow. “Isn’t the medical officer the last person you should be trying to rile up?”  
  
From the little show just witnessed, Lanigan wasn’t a man who knew the definition of pity, but he didn’t press the issue. Perhaps he just realized that Kaidan had a point. “Suppose you’re right,” Lanigan conceded, “Can’t fucking agitate both sides of a war and win, and I’ve already done a number on Holy Joe.”  
  
“He’s a poor chaplain,” Legion added without looking up, perhaps speaking in Lanigan’s defense. He set the needle off to the side and started bandaging the arm.  
  
“Shoddy,” Lanigan agreed.  
  
“We pray he gets better, but somewhere along the way he lost his path. The one he’s on is dangerous for anyone that chooses to follow.” Tying off the bandage, Legion finally turned to look at Kaidan. Though his faint grin was still in place, it seemed sad. “He prays for battle outcomes, and the death of his fellow man. These are not things we should pray for even if He saw fit to fulfill them.”  
  
“Man’s a fucking _Geisteskranker_ ,” Lanigan said, watching Kaidan openly. It was another test. Not an easy other, either. Most of the rumors about what Kaidan had done to get a job instructing were enthusiastic and untrue, but everyone knew he’d been at the front. He’d seen Jerry. Shot twenty or a hundred, and dragged dying men back to the trenches to perform miracles or swear a heartfelt vengeance depending on the storyteller.  
  
Brow furrowed, Kaidan twisted his mouth into a frown and measured his response. After a moment, he settled on a halting, “I don’t know what that means.”  
  
Lanigan let the last of his unease fall away, apparently satisfied with the lack of an openly hostile reaction. Legion glanced between them, tying off the bandage.  
  
“Overzealous,” Legion offered when Lanigan didn’t. Without pausing, Legion started packing his supplies back up. “It’s a cruder way to say overzealous.”  
  
“It is fucking not.” Lowering his voice, Lanigan leaned toward Kaidan as if to share an unpleasant secret. He continued with barely reined in glee, “The man’s more likely to shoot you than save you, and most likely to do one and say he’s doing the other. I’ll let you guess the order.”  
  
Kaidan grimaced.  
  
“Too right,” Lanigan said.  
  
“Is that what happened tonight?” Kaidan asked gently. It wasn’t. The loud and immediate laugh that shook Lanigan said as much.  
  
“No, no. Tonight was an accident. I was talking too close to the devil dodger and one of the kids thought…” Lanigan paused. “A Jerry got this far in and wants to spoil it all by killing a man who slept through seminary school?”  
  
“Unlikely,” Legion added. “On both counts.”  
  
“Lift your arm,” Kaidan said. Scoffing, Lanigan carefully lifted his arm. After checking his mobility, Kaidan checked the bandages to make sure they weren’t too tight. Considering his lack of hands-on practice, Legion had done well. With all the fussing finished, Lanigan was allowed to lower his arm. “You’ll live to see the frontlines yet, Lanigan. Lucky you.”  
  
“Just what I wanted.”  
  
“As long as you stop by tomorrow so Nazaire can check that everything is holding up, you can—“  
  
Behind Kaidan, someone cleared their throat. “Am I interrupting?”  
  
A man hovered in the doorway, grinning sheepishly even as blood dripped off his chin. His nose was bleeding, blood streaked on his chin and over the forming bruise on his cheek. Kaidan blinked at him, noting the high cheekbones, and the strong line of the man’s jaw under all the mess.  
  
All things came in three. Kaidan peered over the man’s shoulder, expecting another patient shortly. After a week of nothing, it would suit Kaidan’s luck to have emergencies pile up as his migraine started to gain a proper foothold.    
  
“If it isn’t the infamous half-breed!” cheered Lanigan. Everything friendly in Kaidan’s expression dropped as he shot Lanigan a disapproving look. Even Legion stood a little straighter, stiff in the shoulders. Lanigan ignored them both. “Mouthing off again, Shepard?”  
  
“You too, _na hollo_ ,” drawled Shepard, his amused expression not matching the quiet threat in his tone. “Someone finally took the shot.”  
  
Stepping between them to break the staring match, Kaidan ushered Shepard inside the tent and onto the nearest cot. There were no protests. Legion set aside the medical kit he’d been wrapping and went to fetch a clean bit of cloth. Heedless of the blood, Kaidan gently tipped Shepard’s chin up to scrutinize for any deformities near the bruised cheek.  
  
“Look left,” said Kaidan. Shepard did so, then to the right when Kaidan instructed. His eyes were dark, but the second too long that Kaidan stared had nothing to do with distinguishing whether or not Shepard’s pupils were dilated. “Look up. Does everything look clear? No blurring? ”  
  
“Not a thing, doc.”  
  
“Good.” Fingers itching, Kaidan released Shepard’s chin. “Open and close your mouth, and tell me if anything hurts or pops.”  
  
“It’s my understanding that getting punched in the face usually hurts.” There was a wince as Shepard worked his jaw, but it didn’t seem to hinder him. “At least for me. If there’s another way to do it, let me know.”  
  
Kaidan cocked his head to the side, amused despite the sympathy pangs under his own eyes. “We know they didn’t hurt your jaw. That’s something.” Returning with the wet cloth, Legion handed it to Shepard instead of Kaidan. It made sense; one arm was enough to diagnose, but the practical things like cleaning up were more difficult. At least Shepard didn’t seem offended, happy to clean the blood off even without help. “Nothing seems broken.”  
  
“Really.” Shepard didn’t sound surprised. He didn’t look surprised. “You’re the Canadian, aren’t you?”  
  
Doing his best imitation of a dying man, Lanigan groaned. “Oh, I know what this is. Really, Shepard?”  
  
“Wasn’t the medic telling you to leave when I got here?” Shepard bit back, not so much as glancing in Lanigan’s direction. Lanigan puffed himself up like he was preparing for another fight. Not willing to take that chance, Kaidan shifted just enough to block their view of one another. Soldiers were remarkably similar to dogs sometimes, and breaking the sightline generally derailed the brewing fights.  
  
When it was clear that Kaidan didn’t plan on moving out of the way, Lanigan huffed indignantly. “Leave him to your ambush, you mean.”  
  
“Uh.” Baffled, Kaidan looked to Legion for help and found none. Legion merely shrugged and snatched up Lanigan’s bloodied clothes before gathering up the man himself.  
  
Mirroring how they hobbled in, Lanigan looped an arm over Legion’s shoulders. “Do you know what the odds of this going catastrophically wrong are?” Legion didn’t respond, and Lanigan twisted to look in Shepard’s direction. “He’s from Canada, you know, not fucking Fiji.”  
  
“Goodnight, Sergeant Alenko. Shepard.” Nodding to both of them, Legion proceeded to drag the protesting Lanigan out of the tent. Awkwardly, Shepard and Kaidan stared after them until Lanigan’s shouting faded.  
  
“Well, that was…” unsure how to finish, Kaidan cleared his throat instead. With his face free of blood, it was easier to see Shepard’s ugly bruising. Someone had gotten in more than a few good hits. If Kaidan focused on that, he could almost ignore the weight of Shepard’s eyes on him.  
  
“Where in Canada?”  
  
“Vancouver,” Kaidan supplied without thinking. He’d answered it a few dozen times over already, one more didn’t register. “You might get a nasty headache,” he continued, “but that should be the worst of it.”  
  
Shepard frowned, deliberately still. “You’re a hard man to start a conversation with, Alenko.”  
  
“Me?” Chuckling, Kaidan touched the back of his neck, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break. “You chased all the good conversationalists out of the tent.”  
  
It was the wrong thing to say. Later, Kaidan would learn how to phrase things to keep Shepard from assuming that every other half-hearted joke was a challenge, but he hadn’t learned yet and didn’t know. The grin Shepard replied with was sharp and delighted.  
  
“It just takes a bit of practice, Alenko, starting with introductions.” Without warning, Shepard clasped Kaidan’s wrist, as if overshooting a handshake, and Kaidan grabbed Shepard’s wrist entirely out of reflex. Shepard used the anchoring to hoist himself up and gave Kaidan’s arm a firm shake. “Rolland Shepard. From the middle of Oklahoma, and damn glad to be out of there even if they ran me all the way to France.” He paused. “I think that puts us on even footing.”  
  
Grinning at the almost handshake, Kaidan offered his name, tacking on “It’s a pleasure.”  
  
Shepard clapped his shoulder and released Kaidan’s arm. “You’re a natural. It didn’t even look like it hurt.”  
  
“Not me,” admitted Kaidan. The bruises Shepard earned to get there might count. “The stories going around are better than any that actually happened, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”  
  
“You’d be surprised at how often that happens. Last month it was that the Germans were scalping people.”  
  
Grimacing, Kaidan shook his head. “That’s certainly colorful.”  
  
“And wrong.” Kaidan nodded and Shepard’s smirk lost some of its bite. “I asked, more or less, they had no idea what I was talking about. They told me a great story about English soldiers not staying dead though.”  
  
Ghost stories weren’t new, not to Kaidan and certainly not to anyone on the front. But all of them, almost without exception, were unpleasant to recount. Kaidan grimaced and Shepard only looked disappointed for a moment.  
  
“Just stories, of course. You’re not quite what I expected after hearing Jasox go on about you. Something wrong?” Like lightning during a summer storm, the mention of Jasox was surprising but not entirely unexpected. It caught Kaidan somewhere in the chest and he must have looked as ill as he suddenly felt because Shepard paused. “He might be your truest fan, the way he was singing your praises. He’s probably got plans to build a church.”  
  
Or just the altar, Kaidan didn’t say. Men like Jasox always had new tricks, new ways to change the world, but Kaidan only had one. He could only cling to his principles and hope that doing the right thing worked out better for him than it did for Job. That meant dodging all of Jasox’s lures, even the unknowing messengers who didn’t mean the harm they might cause.  
  
The smile Kaidan mustered up was wane. “You should try and sleep off the headache before it gets started.”  
  
Shepard reached up to touch his bruises, looking faintly surprised to find they stung when his fingertips brushed the edges. Reluctantly, Shepard nodded. “You’re the medic.”  
  
“Goodnight, Shepard.”  
  
Nodding again, Shepard walked backward to the flap of the tent and slowly let himself out. Each movement exaggerated to give Kaidan time to change his mind. Of course, Kaidan didn’t, and Shepard trudged off, looking for all the world like a wronged man.  
  
Tying the door behind him, Kaidan walked back to his own tent. Without bothering to remove his boots, Kaidan curled up on his cot. The migraine that nipped at his heels earlier chose that moment to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Na hollo - a supernatural creature that creates fear and reverence, white man
> 
> This wasn't meant to be so late but I got a puppy and his first order of business was eating my laptop's power cord.


End file.
